Die by the Gun Page 13

  “He blames me,” Desmond said bitterly. “He blames me for everything! Probably even for the storm!”

  “Not that as much as he’s blaming himself if anything were to happen to you.”

  “What’s he care?” Desmond stormed away before Mac could explain. Maybe he didn’t know how Hiram Flowers felt about his ma. Or maybe he did and that caused the bad blood between them, not that he saw Flowers as unnecessarily riding Desmond. The kid was pretty dumb when it came to most things, but he’d never had a chance to be on his own and learn.

  Mac trailed him to the supply wagon, where Messerschmidt was already fixing up a couple of other cowboys. Mac sat on the tailgate. Messy had retrieved a bottle of whiskey from the chuckwagon and used it liberally on the men’s open cuts. Mac picked it up, looked at it a moment, then called, “Desmond. Heads up!”

  He tossed the half-full bottle. Desmond caught it. He stared at it, then looked up to Mackenzie.

  “Go on, take a swig. It’s for medicinal purposes.”

  Desmond pulled the cork, lifted it to his lips, then paused. He lowered the bottle and recorked it. He tossed it back.

  “Not interested.” He spun around and stalked off.

  “What’s that all about?” Messy took the bottle from Mac. “You’re not seein’ me pass up a chance to take a long pull.” He expertly plucked out the cork with thumb and forefinger and, using the same hand to hold the bottle, upended it. A good inch of amber fluid disappeared down his gullet. He let out a sigh and recorked the bottle.

  Messerschmidt held it out to Mac, who shook his head and said, “No thanks.”

  “You and the kid got a pact to see who can be more mule headed?”

  “Something like that.” Mac had to wonder at Desmond turning down the whiskey. Deciding if that was a good sign or bad gave him something to ponder.

  “Better get everything packed up and ready for the trail,” Mac went on. “Flowers never said, but since the herd stampeded in the direction he intended to go, there’s a meal to be fixed before long, and I had better be ready.”

  “I wouldn’t go more ’n three miles, not in this rain. There’s still a passel of men to patch up, and I don’t want to leave with them leakin’ blood everywhere.”

  “See you at dinner, Messy.” Mac waved as he walked off and added over his shoulder, “Obliged for the patching up!”

  He trudged back to the chuckwagon, his head hurting worse than ever. He made a quick check and saw that Desmond had cleaned up the wagon enough to press on. The rain wasn’t pelting down as hard as before and might stop soon. From the crash of thunder, the storm center had moved to the north and they were traveling northwest now. Let the rain swell the Pecos even more. They were across it.

  “Desmond!” He climbed onto the driver’s box and looked around. “Desmond, you riding with me?” No answer. “I’m pulling out. You’ll have to catch up.” As Mac sat, the world spun a little before settling down. He blinked hard. Having Desmond with him to be sure he wasn’t seeing double would have been a boon, but the youngster had gone off somewhere to lick his wounds and be mad at the world.

  The team moved, but they were difficult to control. The sporadic rain kept them shying one way and the other, but the distant sound of the running herd worried the horses the most. They were smarter than he was, Mac reflected. They knew better than to get in the way of a stampede.

  After a few minutes, the team settled down and dutifully pulled the chuckwagon along the muddy track that passed for a road. Commerce came this way, wagons and mules and men driving stagecoaches. He hunted for traces that they actually followed the Goodnight-Loving Trail and found nothing. The rain had erased such obvious marks, leaving behind only the dual ruts baked into the ground by the sun most days of the year. Mac turned up his collar to keep the cold raindrops from running down his neck.

  The rain was more of a fine mist now, but he had driven through worse. His mind drifted away from driving and went to fixing a meal for the hungry cowboys. They deserved something special for all the work they’d put in this day, from getting the herd across the river to stemming the raging tide of a full-out stampede.

  At the thought of the mindlessly running cattle, he reached up and touched his tender scalp. He was lucky the hoof hadn’t caught him a half inch lower or it would have split open his head.

  If Mac was lucky, then Desmond Sullivan was even luckier that someone had come by just as he fell off his horse. There wouldn’t have been more than a trampled, bloody corpse if Mac hadn’t decoyed the steers away and forced Desmond to stay low behind the rocks. As it was, they had both come close to ending their days.

  “Ingrate,” Mac muttered. “I saved his life, and he seems to blame me.”

  As he ranted and raved on, he began gesturing with one hand and then the other. Switching the reins from one hand to the other proved easy for a man used to driving the wagon. But the horses balked when they came to a steep hill. The road was muddy, and getting up to the summit required a running start.

  He applied the reins, snapping them and shouting to the horses to keep them pulling. The chuckwagon worked its way up the hill, sideslipping now and then in the slick mud. Mac let out one last hoarse shout to get the team to the top. From up there it would be easy to find a spot to set up camp and feed the men.

  The chuckwagon began sliding. Mac tried to get the horses to pull faster. That was the only way he had of keeping the wagon from tilting precariously. The horses simply stopped. The wagon slid faster, sideways down the hill. A last effort to have the team pull him out of his predicament failed. He heard the wagon tongue snap as the wagon tilted far on its side. Freed of their burden, the team bolted. The wagon slammed back down on all four wheels, but it was completely out of control now.

  Mac screamed as the wagon slid. He tried to stand and jump off, but the speed was too great. When the chuckwagon wheels hit a rock, the world went spinning. The wagon landed on its side and kept sliding down toward the bottom of the hill.

  Mac had to hang on for dear life because he was on the wrong side of the runaway. If he jumped off, the chuckwagon would go over him and crush him. The mud lubricated the way until wagon and cook fetched up hard against a rocky patch. It felt like a giant fist had slammed down on them, stopping them.

  Mac tried to move but couldn’t. Looking down, he saw his legs were pinned under part of the wagon. The weight felt as if it increased with every passing second. Mac realized he was weakening from the fight to get free. He sagged, taking a moment to gather his strength. When he was again aware of the world, he realized he had passed out. The rain came down harder now. The gully between hills began to fill with runoff.

  And Mac was held down as the water rose around him. It would take a lot more rain for him to drown, but gully washers out on the prairie dumped inches of rain at a time. That might be more than enough. He fought to pull his legs free, and again he failed.

  Flopping back down, he tried to figure out how to escape. There had to be a way, but his head hurt worse than ever. Still, that was better than what he felt from the waist down—nothing. There wasn’t any feeling at all in his hips and legs.

  “Help!” he called out, but his voice was weak. He had turned hoarse shouting at the horses to keep them moving in the mud.

  He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, half aware of the world, but finally a new sound drifted to his ears over the constant pounding of the rain. A horse was approaching.

  Mac used his arms to force his body up like a snake ready to strike. In this position he saw the rider coming through the sheets of rain.

  “Here. Over here!”

  His heart leaped when the rider turned and rode toward him.

  “Desmond, get me out from under here. The chuckwagon flipped and . . .”

  Mac lost all strength, all hope, as Desmond Sullivan turned his horse’s face and rode off without saying a word.

  CHAPTER 15

  The rain washed dirt off Mac’s face and out of his eyes,
allowing him to see the full extent of his problems. Wiggling around, he began scooping at the soft earth in an attempt to free his legs from under the chuckwagon. His fingers quickly turned raw and his strength faded. He lay back, gasping, letting the rain hammer down on him.

  The cold water renewed his determination, if not his strength. Muscles screaming in agony, he returned to burrowing under the wagon. He finally dug a tunnel to his right leg.

  He ran his fingers along his leg. No sensation. Panic rose, then anger replaced it. He should have driven better. And Desmond Sullivan should have tried to help. Instead he had ridden away, leaving him to die. Fury filled him. Mac pinched his leg and yelped as pain lanced all the way down into his foot. For a second he let that build, then he realized what the pain meant. His legs were still good, only pressed down into the mud under the weight of the chuckwagon.

  Another five minutes of digging furiously exhausted him completely. He gasped for breath and tried to think of another way to get free. Nothing came to him.

  “You need help?”

  The voice came from far off. Mac knew it had to be a hallucination. But what did he have to lose? He answered.

  “Whatever you can do would be mightily appreciated. I don’t know what more I can do for myself.”

  “You done good, moving that much dirt with nothing but your hands.”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “You’re a mite hoarse from shouting, but you could have called for help. Hang on.”

  Mac closed his eyes and smiled. He had such good hallucinations. He even thought he heard wood creaking and the pressure on his legs vanishing. A yelp escaped his lips as strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him hard and fast.

  “That’s got him free. Let the wagon down real gentle. I don’t want it more banged up than it already is.”

  “We ought to push it back onto its wheels, but it’ll be easier if we turn it so the front end is pointing downhill.”

  Mac blinked. His eyes were filled with rainwater and tears. More blinking cleared them. Hiram Flowers stood over him. The trail boss had pulled him from under the wagon. Near the chuckwagon Messerschmidt and Kleingeld held a long pole they had used to lever it up.

  Walking around from the rear came Desmond Sullivan.

  “It’s all set to move,” Desmond said. He glanced at Mac.

  “You went for help,” Mac said in a choked voice.

  “You thought I abandoned you. Figures.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Enough of this yammering,” barked Flowers. “Messy, get him back to your wagon and fix him up the best you can. You get back to riding the herd, Desmond. You, too, Kleingeld. The stampede’s over, but the rain is still spooking the beeves.”

  Mac looked up at the trail boss. Words didn’t come. His throat felt as if someone were strangling him.

  “Desmond came straight to me,” Flowers said. “He saved you. Nobody would have missed you until they didn’t get fed.”

  “Nice to be needed,” Mac croaked. He closed his eyes and let them move him around. It felt good to be out from under the wagon. It felt even better knowing Desmond had had a hand in saving him.

  * * *

  “Some folks back east would kill to get steak every day,” Desmond said. “I’d kill to have a fruit pie.” He cut the steaks into strips, readying them for Mac to fry.

  “Fruit pie?” Mac perked up. He hobbled as he went from one kettle to another, stirring the midday meal. His legs worked but were still stiff and sore, days after the mishap with the chuckwagon.

  The savory smell from the kettles made his mouth water. It took all his willpower not to sample everything every time he stirred or checked. That was how cooks got to weigh twice what any cowboy did.

  “That’s one thing I remember,” Desmond said. “My ma fixing peach pie. Or apple. Sometimes choke-berry. It’d depend on what she could find. She’d let the pie cool on the windowsill. I’d sneak over and sit underneath, just sniffing like I was a hound dog hunting down a rabbit.” Desmond let out a sigh as the memory pushed away his darker moments.

  “We don’t have any fruit.” Mac checked the larder to be sure. They were too long into the drive for any fresh fruit to remain uneaten. Even the dried fruit had run out before they crossed the Pecos. In the week since then, since he had been trapped under the wagon, they had worked northward but kept away from towns where he might trade a cow or two for more supplies. This stretch of New Mexico was sparsely populated desert.

  “I know, but having a full belly isn’t the same as pleasing your taste buds.”

  They finished preparations for the meal, Mac’s mind racing. Desmond had settled down after rescuing him and had dutifully done whatever he was told. Some resentment still simmered in the young man. That was obvious by the narrowed eyes and the facial twitches, but he had been almost bearable.

  “Are you riding herd this afternoon?”

  “That’s what Flowers said.” Some antagonism sneaked into Desmond’s answer.

  “I won’t need your help anymore,” Mac said. “I’m getting around just fine now.”

  “You’re still limping.”

  “Thanks for working as my cooking wrangler. It helped having someone to lean on rather than doing it all myself.”

  Desmond looked at him, expression unreadable. He shrugged and went back to his work.

  He had come a ways from the way he acted before they crossed the river. A powerful lot of responsibility had been dropped on his shoulders, and he had stepped up to take it on. He had saved the chuckwagon in the middle of the river after Mac had been washed over the side. The lapse riding herd where he had almost been trampled was something that could have happened to any of the cowboys. It had been an exhausting trip across the Pecos and the entire crew had been faced with a powerful thunderstorm immediately after. If Desmond hadn’t been the one falling from his horse, another could have just as easily. Mac was glad he rode by when he had to save him.

  Whether Desmond had saved him out of common decency or thought of it as evening the score worried Mac. On the trail they all depended on each other. This wasn’t a poker game where the winner stacked the most chips in front of him on the table. He thought back on his own experience with the Rolling J crew and how that trail boss had fared. Patrick Flagg had saved more than one of the cowboys when they got into trouble, Mac included, only to lose all his chips at the end of the trail.

  Some gave, some took, everyone worked together. Where Desmond fit into the Circle Arrow cattle drive remained to be seen. But that didn’t mean Mac couldn’t show some gratitude for what he had done.

  Humming to himself, he packed up the last of the kettles and other utensils, checked to be sure the wagon tongue repair held, then got the wagon rolling toward the spot three miles north where Hiram Flowers decided to spend the night with the herd. As he drove along, Mac kept a sharp eye out for cactus. He saw a few barrel cactus and cholla everywhere, but they wouldn’t suit his needs.

  An hour along the trail, he halted, secured the reins, and jumped down. His leg threatened to give way under him, then strengthened.

  With a smooth move he drew his knife. Spreading his bandana on the ground, he began cutting off the seedy fruit from a prickly pear cactus. Half a hillside was covered in the spiny plant and hundreds of purple-red bulbs poked out. A quick slash with his knife separated the fruit from the spiny, succulent pad. In less than five minutes he had a couple pounds of prickly pear fruit.

  He tied the corners of his bandana together and put the precious package into the back of the wagon. The next two hours passed slowly as he thought about how to fix a special dessert for Desmond to thank him and maybe to win him over from his hostile ways.

  Hiram Flowers stood near a clump of cottonwoods and waved to him. Mac veered over and came to a rattling halt.

  “This where you want to set up camp for the night?” Mac secured the reins and climbed down, careful not to show any injury to the trail boss.

 
“Exactly right. You feeling up to fixing a full meal for those hungry drovers? I can get Desmond to help.”

  “He’s been handy but use him how you want, especially if he’s needed with the herd.”

  “He is,” Flowers said. He chewed on his lower lip, then locked eyes with Mac. “You see anybody on our back trail?”

  “The men who tangled with the Comanches? I haven’t seen them since that dustup.” Mac hesitated to say more. Flowers would fire him if he thought for an instant that bounty hunters were after him or if he ever learned that the wanted poster was legally issued, even if Mac had been framed for a murder he would never have committed under any circumstances.

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” Flowers broke off, stared at his boots, and said in a voice almost too low to hear, “They’re after me, I think. I tangled with one of them a year back. He didn’t come out of the fight ever wanting to be partners, that’s for sure.”

  Mac’s eyebrows rose. It never occurred to him that the bounty hunters were after anyone but him.

  “A guilty man flees when no one pursues,” Mac muttered.

  “Not sure how guilty I am, if I’m right about the man leading them. He’s a snake in the grass. You keep your eye peeled for them, and let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mac said.

  “You’re the most responsible man I’ve got here, Mac. Thanks.”

  Before Mac could reply, Flowers vaulted into the saddle and trotted away. Mac watched the trail boss go, his head buzzing again. Being kicked in the head by a longhorn hadn’t done him any good. It had led to him rolling the wagon down a hill and now it kept him from thinking this through. In a way he hoped Flowers was right about their pursuers being after him to settle an old score. But the night he had overheard two of them talking led him to believe they wanted to collect a reward—from New Orleans.

  He looked around and found a decent spot to set up his wagon near a pond. Lugging water caused his already bruised body to complain. Painful or not, after getting what he needed for cooking, he refilled the water barrels. They were entering harder desert and water might be impossible to find unless they turned into Apaches. The chances of that were small.